Ken Bruen - The Dramatist

Heard her intake of breath, then,

“If I’d all the angles covered, Jack, I’d have ended my friendship with you a long time ago.”

And she hung up.

During my years as a guard, I’d met all kinds of people, usually the scum of the earth. A time I was stationed in Cavan, I arrested an old man for urinating in a public place. Yeah, Cavan was high crime zone. Got him in the car and I did feel petty. He said,

“Son, the thing with friends is they aren’t ever, and I mean ever, allowed to make you feel bad. That’s the role of the rest of the world.”

I was young then, full of piss and wind, said in my Templemore tone,

“I’m not your friend.”

He gave a tired smile, said,

“Sure, guards have no friends.”

I forget his face but I remember his words. Was I angry with Cathy? Let me put it this way, I was going to have a hard job explaining to Mrs Bailey why I punched a hole in the bathroom wall. Didn’t break my knuckles but it was a close call.

Mrs Bailey handed me a fat envelope, said,

“That young girl, Cathy?... She left it for you.”

“Thanks.”

I hefted the envelope in my palm, figuring this was a lot of cash. Mrs Bailey was staring at me and I snapped,

“What?”

Probably a little sharper than I intended. She took a step back, then,

“That girl Cathy... she’s not one of our own, not Irish I mean?”

“No, she’s from London.”

“She has a breed of an Irish accent.”

“Yes, she went native.”

She clucked her tongue, shook her head, dismissing such nonsense, said,

“They think if they buy a Claddagh ring and use the Lord’s name, it makes them one of us, as if that could ever happen.”

I gave a tight smile, turned to go, said,

“Sorry if I was a bit sharp.”

She assessed me, then,

“You were sharp, and I don’t think you’re sorry. I think you regret the action as you’re fond of that control. ’Tis the guard in you.”

I didn’t think there was a whole lot to be gained in debating the point so I said,

“I’ll be in Dublin for two days.”

“Oh, are you working again?”

“No, it’s to visit someone.”

“Are they sick?”

“As a parrot.”

I’d a holdall on my shoulder, wasn’t entirely sure what to pack for prison. Put in two white shirts; they’d cover most contingencies. A pair of Farah slacks with that knife crease, you could slice bread with it. Two books, of course, to cover both legs of the trip. I’d been into Charlie Byrne’s on Monday. A ton of new books had arrived, and I wished I had the time to go through them. Vinny was engrossed in a book, then he looked up, the slow grin beginning, said,

“Jack, we thought you’d given up reading.”

“Never happen.”

“Help you with anything?”

I glanced round, no one near, and asked,

“I’m going to see a guy in prison; I thought I’d bring him some books. Any ideas?”

He shifted his glasses, a sure indication of serious consideration, said,

“I’d stay away from prison accounts. I mean, the guy is doing time. How much is he going to want to read about it?”

As if he read my mind. God forgive me, I’d been seriously contemplating exactly that line of country. He reached behind him, to what I knew to be his private stash, pulled out one.

“Here.”

Spike Milligan’s Puckoon . I said,

“This is your own copy: looks well handled and well cared for.”

“Jack, what’s the worst that can happen, they’ll nick it? They’re already serving the sentence.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“I’ll put it on your account.”

“Thanks, Vinny, you’ll be rewarded.”

“From your lips to God’s ears.”

The train was due to leave Tuesday at 11 a.m. I’d plenty of time to kill, walked up to the cathedral and was relieved not to meet the snatcher. On by the hospital, on towards Cooke’s Corner. The rain started and I turned my collar up. As I turned into Mill Street I decided to buy cigarettes. For as long as I remember, there’s been a family grocery there. I noted it was now a mini-mart and wondered how much time had gone since my last visit. Walked in and got my second surprise: it was mini Africa. Black families chatted in the aisles, their kids spread out along the wall. Energetic music spilled from every corner. A jovial large man clapped my shoulder, said,

“Welcome, man.”

I moved to the till and a woman in her thirties with a face of stunning beauty served me. As I turned to leave, she said,

“Please visit soon.”

“I will.”

The rain had stopped and I passed by the garda station... or the barracks as it used to be known. It was a hive of activity. I paused for a moment, a jumble of emotions. Did I miss being a guard? Oh God, yes. Did I miss the bullshit? Never. I wondered how it would go if I called in to see my old nemesis, Clancy. Was I kidding? I knew exactly how that would go.

Badly.

A man in his fifties, with red protruding cheeks, purple nose, tweed jacket and the regulation blue shirt did a double take, asked,

“Jack?”

“Hello, Brian.”

If memory served, as it sometimes did, we’d pulled crowd duty in the days of cattle boats. Right down to his GAA tie and the gold fáinne , he was beyond caricature. No faking the gruff friendliness though as he bellowed,

“By the holy, I heard you were dead.”

“Close enough.”

He looked round and I knew it didn’t help any career to be seen with me. He offered,

“Have you time for a quick one?”

“I have a train to catch.”

I couldn’t remember the last time I caught the train; and what the hell had happened to the station? Of course, I knew that coach travel, rail strikes and price hikes had played havoc with the service, but the station was transformed totally. Before, it had been a country train station servicing what was, in reality, a country town. The station master knew everybody in Galway, and not only did he know where you were going but the purpose of the trip. No matter the number of years you might have been gone, when you alighted at the station he’d greet you by name and know where you’d been.

A speaker announced departures in four languages. I queued for my ticket behind a line of backpackers. Not a word of English anywhere. Finally I got to order a two-day return and was staggered at the price, asked,

“Is that first class?”

“Don’t be silly.”

Muttering, I passed the new modern restaurant, the old draughty café but a blip in the mind. There’d been a photo of Alcock and Brown pinned to the wall beside a poster of a jolly man staring in wonder at a flock of flamingos, pints of the black in their beaks, and the logo

My Goodness

My Guinness.

It always brought a smile.

The train still retained a smoking carriage, to the astonishment of an American couple. She went,

“John, you can, like... smoke... on this train.”

If he had an answer, he wasn’t voicing it. I had the carriage to myself. So I lit up, feeling it was downright mandatory. A whistle blew and we pulled away. Louis MacNeice loved trains and always wrote his journal during trips. I tried to read to no avail. Outside Athlone, a tea trolley came, pushed by a powerfully built man. He looked as if he moved mountains. The trolley appeared a mere irritant. I asked,

“How you doing?”